Read Wicked Deeds Page 21


  “Oh!” Gary said. “To your husband? Or do you mean Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “Let’s start with Poe,” Monica said.

  “Oh, well, there were so many theories,” Gary said. “Even his family members, who were called, thought that he might have slipped. I mean, times were different. No cell phones, no DNA testing, no way to check up on what was going on... I mean, an election day back then would have been deplorable! Men manipulating other men...”

  “You believe that he was kidnapped so that he could be forced to change up his look and vote over and over again?” Monica asked.

  “To me, it’s the most possible of the theories. For one, him not being found in his own clothing,” Gary said.

  Alistair suddenly sat forward. “Yes, you see, it does make the most sense to believe that he was first more or less seduced!”

  “Seduced?” Vickie murmured, frowning as she glanced at Griffin. They were both aware of Poe, tense, watching, listening—getting ready to bang on something.

  “Yes,” Alistair said, “you see, one of the pollsters—his name lost to history—tempted Poe. He made him have that first glass of wine or whiskey. And then another and another. And they had him vote first in his own clothing, maybe a couple of places. They forced him then to change clothing—probably selling his finer garments and giving him the ragamuffin stuff. It was called cooping, and Poe would not have been the only victim of such a practice. He was fed alcohol, and then made to vote repeatedly—and he was left then at the tavern, the last place he voted. Poor man, used and abused. But his vice made it easier for those out to get them.”

  “Not true, not true!” Poe protested.

  “Not true!” Vickie said aloud.

  Alistair stared at her, startled. “What? How do you know? It’s all speculation!”

  “Right, of course,” Vickie agreed quickly, “but... I believe—from everything that I’ve read—that Poe was in love. And I don’t think that he was as much a drunkard as those biographers who did not like Poe tried to portray. His obituary depicted him as a drunk, and therefore, that’s what’s been remembered through the ages. There’s recently been a strong case made by a young writer named Peters suggesting that the brain-tumor theory might be the right direction. Poe’s body was moved to where it is now a few decades after his death and, apparently, someone who saw the body then commented on the state of his brain. Normally a brain—soft tissue—decays quickly. But a tumor could have caused calcification.”

  “And that’s your theory?” Monica asked her.

  Vickie was quiet for a minute, looking at Monica.

  “No,” she said.

  “So, what is your theory?” Monica asked.

  Vickie hesitated, glancing at Griffin again. He nodded slightly, just for her. Adam had obviously brought Monica to stir the pot; Vickie might as well play the game all the way.

  “I believe that he was kidnapped. He did not drink. He was taken against his will, and he was attacked by a rabid dog. Whoever took him had an agenda of his own,” Vickie said.

  “There is a theory that he was murdered by the brothers of the woman he loved,” Monica said. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  Vickie hesitated again.

  “Victoria is not merely a young woman about to enter the FBI academy,” Adam Harrison said. “She is a brilliant researcher and writer. And more. She has a very special affinity for the dead.”

  Everyone in the room was very still.

  And then, suddenly, Liza Harcourt was back.

  “Oh, please! You’re making fun of my abilities when we’ve all seen results! But this young woman supposedly has an affinity with the dead. Let’s not be ridiculous.”

  “I think that we should hypnotize Vickie,” Adam said.

  Griffin frowned.

  Liza swore in disbelief and flounced back out of the room.

  “Hypnotize the young lady?” Monica repeated, obviously intrigued with the idea.

  Vickie stared over at Adam. He gave her an encouraging nod.

  She looked at Griffin. His look back at her tried to convey that she must do what felt comfortable to her—say no, if she wished.

  Go with it, if she wished as well.

  “And who will hypnotize her?” Alice asked suspiciously.

  “I will,” Adam said. He told Alice, “I’ve lived a long life. I’ve been and done many things. Lately, the study of psychology has become exceptionally important to me. I’ve studied with some of the best. I believe that I can safely lead Vickie through what she is thinking, what she sees and thinks, deep down in her subconscious.”

  “What would be there that could explain how Poe was killed?” Jon asked.

  “Ah! Well, her deep reservoir of knowledge. Vickie has read more books than I’ve probably ever even counted, not to mention the historical sites she has visited, the academic papers she has read, the personal diaries of those long gone, and more. The unfettered subconscious might be free to make associations, draw conclusions from all that knowledge. So... Vickie, up to you!” Adam said.

  Everyone was looking at her. Griffin knew that on the one hand, she probably longed to explore what might happen. She was likely also afraid. There were so many people around her.

  But that was the point. If Franklin Verne and Brent Whaley had been killed over something to do with Poe, hypnotizing Vickie could definitely shake up the killer.

  And when shaken up, killers had a tendency to give themselves away.

  Or act in haste. The good thing here was that Adam was in the house; Vickie and Griffin were in the house. And unknown to anyone else other than them and Alistair Malcolm, Jackson and Angela were outside.

  Cold, wet and miserable, Griffin was certain. But then again, they were pros. They were accustomed to being cold, wet and miserable in the pursuit of justice!

  “Sure,” Vickie said finally. “How will we do this? Do I follow a pocket watch, or something like that?”

  “No, no. I’m just going to get you really comfortable and take you back. And try to see what went on, what we’re seeing through your eyes,” Adam said.

  “That sofa, there,” Hallie suggested. “The love seat with the pillows. It’s so comfortable!”

  “Okay.”

  Vickie moved over to the love seat. Adam followed her, pulling a chair close. The others flocked around, but not too near.

  Everyone seemed fascinated.

  “Adam, I’m not sure this can work with this many people staring at me,” Vickie said.

  “I think it will work, and work well,” Adam said. “But we’ll see. No pain, no gain, huh?” He glanced at Griffin. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not putting Vickie in any pain. That’s just a saying. We’ll give this a try—see if it works.”

  “It’s up to Vickie, not me,” Griffin said.

  “Completely. So, Vickie...?”

  “Go right ahead. Do your best,” Vickie told Adam.

  “Okay. Just be comfortable. Think of the crackle of the fire. It’s so nice, huh? A warm fire is one of man’s greatest comforts. And the love seat, it’s soft. The pillows beneath your head...they’re so fluffy and comfortable. The rain outside is refreshing. Violent, and then sweet as it washes away so much heat and all else. Think about the cascade of water, think of the sweetness of darkness and rest when you’re weary. Close your eyes...”

  Adam continued to talk. His voice was soothing, Griffin thought that he could probably doze off himself.

  Some people could be hypnotized, he knew, and some couldn’t.

  He thought that with Adam leading her, Vickie might well be a good candidate for hypnosis.

  She trusted Adam.

  “Vickie, always listen to the sound of my voice,” Adam said. “Rest well, but if I say that you’re to awaken, you will awaken.”

/>   Vickie’s eyes were closed. She nodded and her lips moved slightly. “I will awaken,” she said.

  “The year,” Adam said, “is 1849. Horses are pulling carriages through the streets. They move with the clip-clop sound of their hooves on the pavement. You can hear great carriage wheels as they turn, tumbling over the brick pavement. Hawkers cry out to sell newspapers in the street; orange girls offer up refreshment outside music halls and theaters. There is a lot of shouting in the streets. Baltimore is coming up on an election day. A train rolls into the station. Edgar Allan Poe is on that train,” Adam said.

  “Yes,” Vickie murmured.

  “His work was in Philadelphia. He was then to see Mrs. Clemm in the Bronx. But he detrained in Baltimore. On his own?”

  “Yes, I am getting off the train.”

  Vickie’s voice had changed. It was deep. Masculine.

  Griffin looked across the room.

  Poe was no longer present.

  He stared at Vickie, frowning. She looked relaxed; she appeared to be sleeping. Her lips moved.

  And yet it was as if she was really speaking as the dead man!

  “You’re getting off the train. Why? Has someone tried to urge you to a tavern? Are you meeting friends for drinks?”

  Vickie twitched, looking distressed for a minute. She shook her head. “No. No drinks. I have joined the temperance society. I want to marry. I want a home and a family. I love Elmira.”

  “But you chose to get off the train. Why?”

  “I am to meet a man.”

  “You’re to meet a man?” Adam asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “No, he was supposed to be in Philly—to work for a woman!” Alistair said.

  Adam didn’t shush him, but neither did he pay him any attention.

  “I was supposed to meet Reynolds,” Vickie said.

  “Reynolds!” Alice gasped. “Dad, when Poe was dying, didn’t he keep asking about Reynolds?” Alice asked.

  “Well, that’s what’s in the record, but...he was in a hospital, having delirium tremors and all kinds of other problems,” Gary said. “I always wondered if the doctor heard the name that Poe was saying wrong—if Poe hadn’t been using a different name—but it has come down to us through the ages the way his doctor heard it.”

  “Why were you to meet this Mr. Reynolds?” Adam asked Vickie.

  “A mutual agreement would be made. I would help him. He would help me.”

  “But you didn’t meet him,” Adam said.

  “I went to meet him. I went to meet him as we had arranged.”

  Vickie suddenly began to twist and turn on the love seat, appearing to be seriously distressed.

  “Adam?” Griffin murmured.

  “A minute, just a minute,” Adam implored. “What happened when you went to meet Reynolds?”

  “The street. I am there. I am walking down the street. The lamps are poor here. They don’t illuminate well at all. They create shadows. Everything seems to move. Everything forms like a monster in that shadow land. I remember the sound. Just subtle. And I knew that someone was behind me.”

  Griffin clutched his hands together, aware that his knuckles were growing white.

  The voice coming from Vickie wasn’t hers. It was masculine; it had a Southern timbre to it that wasn’t Vickie’s.

  Griffin started to move forward; Vickie still seemed to be so distressed.

  “Bastard! Sneaking, manipulative bastard. I can hear the footsteps coming, furtive, menacing. And I turn and... Ah!”

  Vickie suddenly jerked straight up, looking around at all of them. Griffin could see that her pulse was racing.

  He pushed his way to the love seat, drawing her up and into his arms.

  “That—that was a heck of a performance!” Alice said awed.

  “Incredible. I didn’t know that Miss Preston was an actress,” Jon said.

  “She’s not an actress!” Griffin said irritably. “I think, Adam—”

  “Vickie, what did you see?” Adam asked her. “Right before you bolted up.”

  “The same thing I’ve seen before,” Vickie said.

  “And that was...”

  “Burlap. A burlap bag coming over my head,” Vickie said.

  “And who...?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see. I believe that Poe thought, however, that it was this mysterious Reynolds that he was raving about when he died,” Vickie said.

  “Whoa, freaky. I mean, really far freakier than a séance,” Sven said, standing up and shaking, as if he could shrug off what he had seen.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Hallie murmured.

  “Very cool,” Alice said. “And scary as hell,” she added. She grinned. “Boy, Liza should have been here for this. Sadly, she’s so impressed with herself she just can’t see anything else. But wow. Are you sure you’re not some kind of an actress?” she asked Vickie.

  Vickie shook her head. She looked at Adam. “What do you think it means? Everyone has wondered and speculated forever on just who Reynolds might have been. But what if he was someone Poe intended to meet? He went to meet him and he was attacked—either by Reynolds, or by pollsters.” She hesitated and then continued, “I think that after he was kidnapped, he was also attacked by a rabid dog. He wasn’t drunk—he was suffering from rabies. I mean, I do understand that Poe having a brain tumor might be a possibility, but it doesn’t explain why he would have been wearing different clothing.”

  “Miss Preston, do you do this often—this channeling thing, or whatever?” Monica Verne asked her. She looked perplexed, whether she wasn’t sure if she believed what she had just witnessed or not.

  “No. Never before, nothing like this,” Vickie said.

  “Well, she is a writer!” Alistair Malcolm pointed out. “A good one, from all that I’ve ascertained. It’s natural that such a man as Poe would find a beautiful young woman to speak for him!”

  “Poe is long gone,” Alice said. “But that...was...”

  “Freaky!” Hallie said. “Scary—and amazing. Was that real? How could that have been real?”

  “How could it not have been real,” Alistair asked. “That was Poe! That was the master. My God, you could hear his voice. Amazing.”

  “Amazing,” Gary agreed.

  “We have a new dilemma now,” Adam said.

  “Exactly!” Alistair Malcolm said. “We’re back to a question that has plagued scholars for ages, for decades upon decades. Just who was this Reynolds? And why was Poe meeting him?”

  Vickie turned to look at Griffin.

  He smiled at her gravely.

  They just might be able to discover the answer to that question!

  * * *

  Vickie knew that Griffin was worried.

  She’d been worried herself. She’d never—even in her dreams—experienced anything the way she had when Adam had hypnotized her and led her through Poe’s experience. It felt once again as if she was there, but as if she was literally sharing herself with another person.

  It had grown late. While a few of the others had determined to cook on a small gas stove, Vickie had begged off, saying that they had a few power bars and would like to get to sleep. She’d tried very hard for just a few minutes alone with Adam Harrison; he and Monica had arrived without the little horde of ghost adolescents who had been with them.

  Adam briefly explained to her that Dylan, Darlene and Josh were staying at Monica’s house; they were going to make certain that no one came to create any kind of mischief there.

  Gary had said that he was going to go to bed as well—as soon as he and Hallie and Sven had set up two more rooms, since Adam and Monica had arrived pretty much by surprise.

  When they reached their room, Vickie turned and
threw her arms around Griffin’s neck, holding him tight. “I love you!” she whispered.

  She felt the pressure of his arms pulling her closer. “I love you.” Then he drew away from her, looking at her anxiously. “You’re all right? You’re really all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. She hadn’t been—but now she was. Whatever it took. She wanted to be one of the Krewe. That meant using her talents. She believed in Adam—and he had made incredible things happen. She trusted him—and she believed that it had been important.

  “You’ve definitely shaken things up,” Griffin said. “They don’t know whether they just witnessed a spectacular magic show, or if you really channeled Poe.”

  “Have you seen him since?” Vickie asked anxiously.

  “No, I haven’t,” Griffin said. “Maybe it’s hard for him when he speaks through you. Maybe he has to rest afterward—I don’t know. We’ve never really figured out the physical—or lack of—realm of the dead. I’m sure he’ll reappear when it’s the right time.”

  Vickie nodded, staying close to him. “I’m not frightened, Griffin. You’re warm.”

  “Fear isn’t a bad thing. How we deal with fear can be. Be afraid sometimes, Vickie. Fear can keep us from terrible danger, or make us deal with it wide-awake and aware.”

  “But I’m really not afraid. Not of... Not of trying to help out. Griffin, we can ask Poe about Reynolds! People have wondered why he was asking for a man named Reynolds forever and ever. And since he knew he was supposed to meet with the man, there was a reason, and so help me, I believe that he will explain when we do see him again!”

  “Hopefully,” Griffin agreed thoughtfully. He walked over to the French doors to the balcony. He peered out. The rain had stopped. The moon had risen; stars twinkled in the heavens.

  He wondered if Jackson and Angela had taken refuge in their car somewhere—of if they had chosen to wait out some time in one of the little family mausoleums.

  Jackson would do as he deemed best, Griffin knew.

  He closed and locked the doors. “Hey, you!” he said to Vickie.

  “What?”

  “Let’s get some rest.”

  “Yes, rest will be great. Lying next to you... The only thing...”